The Color Red
by Llewellwyn Mephistopheles III
Summary: Mulder ajourns to a small hidden Lousiana town, eager to uncover some aliens and mysteries. Meanwhile, he discoveres more than just mysteries. He uncovers the unbreakable bonds of family...and bloodlust. Crossover X-Files/True Blood/Argeneau
1. Chapter 1

9:47 p.m.

Bon Temps, Louisiana

SPECIAL AGENT Fox Mulder responded to a mysterious call regarding a string of serial cases in which all corpses were subjected to exsanguination and violent strangulation, thus Mulder found himself in the backwoods of Louisiana.

As he drove down a desolate highway, Mulder mused over the intriguing amount of excess overkill present in the case. Without Scully to converse with and bounce ideas off of, he was scruffy and restless. Having not shaved for three weeks, Mulder was growing a healthy beard. As he rounded a corner, the neon sign reading 'Merlotte's' came into view. The bar was where the sheriff had designated they meet before heading off to traipse through the wilderness to the crime scene.

As Mulder parked the car and grudgingly left its air conditioned depths, the dense heat of the Louisiana summer settled about him like a thick cloak. Mulder lurched gloomily into the bar. Upon his dour entrance, several patrons looked up, scanning him greedily. A rotund and obviously drunk woman soon approached him, claiming to have quite a nice car if he would 'like to take a look.' Thankfully, he was rescued from an otherwise doomed encounter by fit and blunt black woman. Without pause, she shepherded the intoxicated woman back to her stool. Once assured that the drunkard was pacified, she turned and identified herself as Tera Thornton while pumping Mulder's hand enthusiastically.

Flashing his badge with gumption he briefed her on his reasons for being in Louisiana. Helpful as always, Tera directed him to a table in the far corner, presumably where the sheriff was perched and presently sorting through paperwork. Mulder reached the table and the two exchanged pleasant greetings before heading off to the crime scene.

Vacating the premises of the drinking establishment, he rushed with more glee than was necessary to the air conditioned heaven that was his car. Waiting for the sheriff to reach his own vehicle, he followed him out of Merlotte's and down the potholed gravel road toward the main highway. Five minutes into the drive, highway hypnosis took effect and Mulder became entirely oblivious to his surroundings, so much so that he did not notice his left blinker was on. Lazily, he floated from white to yellow line, acting like a wingless butterfly. Therefore, when the ostentatiously painted day-glo green Bentley rushed him like a German U-Boat his feeble attempts to transfer his foot from the gas pedal to the break, were just that: feeble. But his excessive FBI training kicked in and he managed to slow down enough that when he careened off the road and into the defenseless swamp undergrowth his life was spared. Less could be said for Mulder's consciousness.


	2. Chapter 2

11:23 p.m.

Shreveport, Louisiana

SCOWLING DISDAINFULLY at the cigarette butts littering _his_ path, Lucian strutted in a manner that would make even a peacock jealous to the front door of Fangtasia. Once at the entrance, he was accosted by an obvious vigilante masquerading as a bouncer. After having casually dismissed him with all the attention one would give a gnat, Lucian was greatly put out to find the pestilence once more in his path. The miniature linebacker was clearly oblivious to Lucian's superior status and mental prowess. Not gracing the ingrate with conversation, Lucian skewered him with and accusatory stare. The buffoon had the gall to stare back with eyes reminiscent of the swamp water that surrounded them. Locked in visual combat, the two unequal individuals refused to look away until a nervous tic ravaged the tender flesh of the idiot's eye. Lucian was forced to quell the urge to poke it. With a school girl-ish yelp, the assailant vanished into the night with an Anime chick's gait. Having successfully vanquished his foe and bringing honor to Argeneau's worldwide, Lucian slipped inside.

The abrasive din of what passed as music filled his ears. He watched passively as human and vampire alike gyrated, bumping pelvises aggressively. Like a sailboat without air, the spasmodic 'dancing' came to a halt. All beings alive and otherwise turned, assessing the newcomer as one would a prime cut of meat. However, as Lucian assumed his most menacing posture, all were reduced to high school nerds, staring at their feet as they shuffled away in shame. All save Eric, the towering Viking of a vampire. He glided forward to confront his opponent and possible singular equal. The air was quickly saturated with the scent of alpha male testosterone; more than a few bar patrons found themselves abruptly uncomfortably wet. Undaunted, Lucian once again found himself engaged in mortal staring combat. This time however a pair of azure eyes like his own returned his gaze. In fact, nearly every feature in Lucian's nemesis appeared identical to his own. Bamboozled, he took a step forward and stared, examining the area around the blond doppelganger for signs of a heinous trickery. A mirror could not be found. Befuddled, Lucian stuck out an elegantly muscled finger and poked the apparition's face. It snarled in response and Lucian decided that such a perfect specimen of manhood was worthy of conversation.

"Speak and be heard before I pass judgment on your foul deeds," Lucian said by way of greeting.

The vampiric usurper arched a sardonic brow. Silence dominated the charged atmosphere.

Lucian prepared to hurdle another insult at the passing annoyance, but it spoke first:

"Why you are wearing my cologne?"

"I do not require such human distractions," scoffed Lucian.

"Why do you smell like me?" The Aryan one asked coldly.


	3. Chapter 3

10:45 pm

The Unknown Wilderness also known as a Bayou, Bon Temps, Louisiana

RENFIELD, THE common house fly, buzzed about in erratic patterns. No sooner had he began his journey—to where is irrelevant—when he found purchase in the nasal canal of one Special Agent Fox Mulder. Mulder, presently comatose, experienced a series of facial spasms—upsetting poor Renfield and slowly regained consciousness. As Mulder became increasingly aware of his surroundings, he realized his forehead hurt quite a lot. He reached up and touched it, the pain intensifying and his fingers coming away sticky and bloodied. Then, and only then, did he being to worry—kind of. Endeavoring to hoist his upper body into something resembling into a sitting position, he realized he was no longer encased in the mangled confines of his car. Studying his surroundings by the light of an orange lava lamp, Mulder recognized the sound of 70's music pouring eerily from hidden speakers. Taking in the full effect of the horridly outdated room he occupied, he registered olive shag carpeting, faux wood paneling on the walls and a pair of white patent leather shoes wedged under his ass. He moaned in horror.

Having regretfully spent his childhood in the seventies, it was not an era he wished to revisit.

Distracting him from his revulsion, the sound of a door opening and shutting echoed through the seemingly basement-like room. Mulder stared at the bottom stair, waiting for his captor to appear. When the man paraded down the steps, trotting like a show pony, Mulder barely stifled a violent gag at the man. Wearing a low v-neck sweater with a forest of black chest hair thick enough to put the Pacific Northwest to shame, he struck a pose. His white nylon stretch pants unfortunately highlighted his less than generous plenty. While lacking gargantuan globs of fat dangling from his frame, he possessed neither washboard abs nor a stunning physique. He looked entirely top heavy, sporting flabby male breasts and standing on disproportionately scrawny chicken legs—made even more obvious by his heinously lofty mustard colored platform boots. His hair would have made even slime eels envious, complimented by a full beard that seemingly merged into the start of his chest hair. His eyebrows however seemed to have received all of the hair grooming attentions as they, in their manscaped glory, were little more than toothpicks over his watery eyes.

Taking in his present condition—inevitable in a uniquely Mulder-esque way—he moved on to other more pressing matters—sunflower seeds. Steeling his mind against the ineluctable task of making conversation with _the beast_, he posed query.

"I don't suppose you have any sunflower seeds?" he asked. Privately, Mulder ruefully acknowledged that even if the man had sunflower seeds, there was nowhere in his corset-like clothing that he could hide them.

With a Macaroni flourish the man withdrew lace adorned handkerchief from his sleeve. How exactly he wedged it in there, Mulder didn't know, nor did he have any express desire to know so. With the predatory grace one would usually associate with a pedophile, the man stalked toward Mulder. Despite being backed into a corner as he was, Mulder attempted to flee. He scuttled backwards with crab-like movements. His hiking boot waylaid his progress as its shoelace hook caught on the obscenely long, polyester shag carpeting (Mulder caught himself thanking any deity that was listening that he didn't have a lighter). Nevertheless, he managed to wedge himself further into his corner. The wood paneling was oddly smooth in contrast with the abrasive shag rug. His assailant moved closer, catching a booted heel on a fiendish leg of the odious coffee table. He landed short of Mulder's petrified form. Lurching forward like a zombie from a grave, he descended upon the terrified FBI agent. He reached forward, his hand shaking. Mulder unconsciously flinched away. With determination sparkling in his beady eyes, the man attempted to initiate what Mulder suspected could only be a mind meld. His sweaty palm smacked the side of Mulder's head. He waited for something momentous to happen, expecting Armageddon. He waited and waited, and waited. His heart palpitated in unsteady bursts.

**A/N:** We love comments!


	4. Chapter 4

11:30 p.m.

Shreveport, Louisiana

THE VISUAL battle continued, unmindful of the other patrons' discomfort. The silence was punctured by a shrill cry of: "I'm blond too!"

Their stare-down interrupted, Lucian slid his predatory gaze toward the source of the sound. Eric followed suit. Two pairs of ice-blue eyes landed on the five foot nine inch (six foot with heels) stature of a blond haired, brown eyed, pink, sparkly spandex clad rock star. Almost as soon as the words left his lips, his attention was diverted by the voluptuous form of Yvette—presently seeking out a new pole to dance about. Two black haired, leather clad motley men soon followed the pink one in pursuit of Yvette. A third, clearly belonging to the same group and equally inebriated, migrated about the tables, calmly informing the patrons of imminent alien invasion. Upon seeing the towering form of Lucien, he abandoned the tables and hobbled over. Grasping Lucien's hand firmly and staring up and up into his ice blue eyes, the slightly crippled man asked, with the intensity of a priest conferring with God:

"Were you around when the Ebola virus killed the dinosaurs?"

Caught completely off guard, Lucian blinked stupidly for a moment, trying unsuccessfully to process the intoxicated man's query. Before Lucian could attempt to scorn the little man, his bloodshot eyes landed on Eric's first edition of _Dracula_. Tottering off, he reached his table, downed another shot and proceeded to read in the virtual darkness of Fangtasia's bowels.

Thoroughly befuddled, Lucian and Eric set aside their differences and shared a communal eye roll of exasperation. They elected to adjourn to Eric's office for further conversation.

**A/N: **We do not mean any disrespect to any characters herein. Motlëy Crüe kicks ass!


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